


The Divorce

by MsChievous



Series: Me, Myself, and the Demons in My Closet [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Homelessness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other characters added as they appear, Rape/Non-con Elements, references to Promdyn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2020-01-06 07:52:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18384158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsChievous/pseuds/MsChievous
Summary: Prompto's made it. He's free from Ardyn, free from his father. If only he could get on his feet and maybe get a job or a home?He has a long road ahead of him before his father dies and he takes back the throne.He hopes he can survive it.





	1. Chapter 1

“ _ Don’t stare too long, he looks crazy, _ ” a woman whispers to her friend as they pass him. 

He’s used to it by now, but the words still sting. It’s not like he  _ chooses _ to walk around the city in ratty pajamas, but here he is. Free from Ardyn, and his father.

_ GrrrRRrRRrrrRrRRrrRrrrrrr _

With a grimace, he fishes in his pocket for whatever spare change people with pitying glances and murmured apologies about being “unable to do more” kindly bestow upon him. 250 gil. Enough for a sandwich from the convenience store and the corner three blocks down. He could probably make that last until tomorrow if he’s lucky. 

It’s a little embarrassing to keep shopping there when they’ve turned down his application twice despite the perpetual “Now Hiring” signs hanging in the windows, but it’s also the only place that serves food he can reasonably afford on his current budget. So he drags his growling stomach to the corner and grabs the cheapest food he can. 

He recognizes the cashier, and she seems to recognize him if the strained smile is anything to go by. “Have a nice day!” she calls, though her voice is overly perky.

Prompto nods back with a smile. “Thanks. You too.”  
  


* * *

 

He wakes up to someone nudging him in the side. “You gotta get up, sir,” a gruff voice says.

Prompto sits up, rubbing his hair down flatter. “Okay. Sorry.”

The police officer nods then moves to continue his route. 

Anger coils in Prompto’s chest. Why do these people care that he’s sleeping at the base of a tree in the park? He’s not in anyone’s way, doesn’t he deserve a good night’s sleep? But the anger dissipates quickly, leaving him empty. Another day of begging on the streets, and fishing for spare change from the various wishing fountains littered around the parks in Insomnia. Part of him wishes to go back to Niflheim. His father might have controlled every aspect of his life, but at least he had food, and clothes, and people looked at him with something besides  _ pity _ . 

No, that’s not right. He doesn’t want to be back. As hellish as every day on the streets is, he did enjoy his freedom. He didn’t have to worry about Ardyn or his father. He even manages to squirrel away small amounts of money each day, so he can save up for a backpack, and hair dye, and maybe even a nice meal. 

But for now, he needs food. 

 

* * *

 

He forces a grin up at a well-dressed woman who drops a rolled-up bill into his cup. “Thank you for your generosity, ma’am.”

The woman smiles back, but doesn’t give him much more attention than that. He tries not to be too disappointed. He probably would have reacted similarly when he still went by the title of “Prince”. 

He pulls out the bill, examining how much she gave him out of a vague sense of curiosity. Then he blinks. Then he rubs his eyes, and looks again. 

_ 10,000 gil? _ That has to be a mistake. He looks around for the woman, she has to be around here somewhere, but he doesn’t see her. 

Then… then it’s his. He can… he can buy what he needs. Maybe… maybe he could even buy one of those disposable cameras, and he would still have extra. His heart leaps in his throat, and he jumps to his feet. He bites back the simultaneous needs to spend the money to protect it from thieves, and save it for days when he can’t spend it on the streets.

The thoughts swirl around in his head and he stumbles to the 24-7 bargain store several blocks away. He’s tried to apply several times here, but each time the managers take his application and hide away in the back. They always pretend they don’t know where it is when he asks.

So it’s unsurprising when a manager meets his eyes, then immediately turns ninety degrees into an aisle. 

Okay, he needs a list. Backpack, number one. Keep all his things together and safe. With 10,000 gil, he might be able to afford a half-decent one that wouldn’t strain his back. He also needs new clothes. Pants and shoes at least. Also socks. No, the list is too long. He needs to pare it down. Backpack, shoes, socks. Yes, more achievable. And… he swings by the candy aisle and grabs a few Snickers bars. 

The old man who helped him find a good spot to sleep a few days back is the one who likes Snickers. He figures it would be a good way to repay the favor. 

Instead of embarrassing himself in front of one of the cashiers, he slides to one of the open self-checkout aisles and rung each item up carefully. It might be silly, but maybe if he shows himself to be reliable and careful, the managers would give him a chance to work.

His total is 3,820 gil. He… he has so much money. The thought nearly brings tears to his eyes. He swipes another Snickers bar from a nearby display and as he turns to get back to the checkout machine, his eyes caught on an enticing sight: a disposable camera.

Compared to his previous cameras, this one is barely worth his time. But he has seen so many beautiful things the past couple months: sunrises, dogs playing in the park, a group of homeless people talking over a shared fire, people waiting on street corners, absorbed in books, or conversation, or their own thoughts. The images swirl in his mind with no outlet, but now… if he just has a camera-.

His hand snatches it before he has a chance to stop himself. The two extra items add another 1,000 gil to the total, leaving him still with more than half of the 10,000 gil from the nice woman.

He hopes, wherever she may be, that she’s happy.

 

* * *

 

Of course, 10,000 gil never lasts long, no matter how hard he tries. Half a month later, he’s knee-deep in a wishing well just off the path leading towards the town square. It’s his preferred spot to filch from since it is close enough to downtown that many people travel through here, but hidden from the sidewalk so passers-by could only see him if they really try.

It’s close to midnight when a sound from his nightmares catches his attention and his head snaps up. Heart pounding out of his chest, he stills, peering through the trees for the source of the sound.

_ MTs. In Insomnia _ .

It takes all of his will power to not immediately start running away. They’re on the sidewalk, marching towards the city center, perpendicular to him. Even though he’s far enough away their peripheral sensors wouldn’t even pick up his presence, he didn’t get this far from Ardyn for so long by being reckless. Even if he is a hundred percent certain that the MT’s aren’t going to get him, the pounding of his heart in his chest, like a scared bird trying to break out of its cage, forces him into action. He needs to move. 

Instead, he slowly lifts one foot out of the water, hovering close to its surface to keep the drops from making too much noise as he moves to rest it against the lip of the fountain. Then he braces himself against the large sculpture in the middle of the fountain and lifts himself up. Again, he keeps his foot close to reduce his noise. He heaves himself straighter, then carefully lowers himself down to the ground. 

His hands shake so bad they can barely hold his socks and shoes, but there is no way he would spend any more time near where the soldiers marched. His hair is starting to lose the dye, and he still hadn’t been able to score a pair of lensless glasses to hide his face. 

Breath coming in frenzied gasps and heart pounding nearly out of his chest, he huddles next to a dumpster on the other side of the park. He pulls it away from the wall and flips up the lid to make a roof of sorts. It’s been raining lately and he doesn’t want to get wet while he’s asleep.

 

* * *

 

Bold of him to assume he’d get some sleep after seeing those MT soldiers. Each time he closes his eyes, flashes of glowing red sockets stare deep into his soul and spindly metal arms claw at his face, forcing him awake for fear that a soldier stands creaking in front of him.

They never are, but his brain just wouldn’t give him a break.

To shake out the jitters, he heaves himself to his feet and starts towards a convenience store to buy a caffeinated drink. He normally wouldn’t allow himself to buy something so frivolous, but he figures that if he isn’t going to sleep, he might as well be alert. 

As he pays for the drink, his eyes catch on the front page of the day’s newspaper: “ **MTs Searching for Lost Prince?** ”

Cold dread crashes through his system, and he ignores the cashier holding out his change to grab up the newspaper. He desperately scans the article.

So his worst fears have come true, he thinks as his hands start to shake. The soldiers are here for  _ him _ . The article is a plea to the people to stay calm and assist the soldiers in locating the prince. There’s a brief description of his appearance, and an artist’s rendering of what he might look like, as his last portrait was taken when he was ten. 

For once, he’s glad his father never really cared for him.

With a deep breath, he folds the paper and places it back in the stack. He gives the cashier and apologetic smile, which she reluctantly reciprocates, and pushes his change across the table.

He nearly forgets his drink in his haste to get out of there. The sun’s just about to rise, he estimates, and he doesn’t have much time to hide. While he might fool the general populace of a country he’s never been to, he doesn’t have much hope hiding his identity from the MT’s. He’s not sure how they would track him or identify him, but if he knows Mr. Besithia, he knows that those soldiers are capable of anything.

He’s deep in thought when his foot catches on the raised metal of a manhole cover. He straightens himself and is about to move on when a thought strikes him.

He knows there are some people who live in the sewers. Either people running from the law, running from someone, or both. Occasionally, a few of them come up for food. The MT’s would be looking for him on the surface, they won’t look in the sewers. He just needs to get down there.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things look bad, then good, then bad again, and maybe back to good?

Prompto leans against the wall of the sewer and holds his head in his hands. The smell from the sewer sludge making its way through the pipes causes his head to pound, but according to his watch, there’s still two hours until midnight, when the fewest people would be walking around. If he can just  _ wait _ .

He gets to his feet, grateful for the walkways that keep him from trudging through…. That gunk. He passes by a woman huddled in a ball and rocking back and forth, but by now he knows better than to talk to anyone else if he wants to keep his limbs attached. 

Down the corridor, he slips through the bent metal bars that lead to the main encampment, in a part of the sewer that the maintenance workers wouldn’t go near. He skirts around the edges, keeping his head down. 

In here, it smells marginally better- of body odor rather than excrement.

“Hey, kid, we need a fourth player, c’mere!”

Prompto looks up, surprised anyone even addresses him. But there they are, two men and a woman, squatting around, holding a pack of cards. Carefully, he moves closer, adjusting his grip on his backpack.

“You ever play euchre?” the man holding the cards asks.

Prompto shakes his head. 

“Alright, so listen close. We deal all the cards, 5 to a person, you’re paired with the person across from you…”

 

* * *

 

Prompto doesn’t understand euchre at all. He stares at the cards, willing them to make sense. But why would Jack be the highest card? Surely an ace would make more sense?

“You want me to pick it up or what?” the woman barks impatiently. Not that he can really blame her. They are losing pretty badly because of him. He looks from the card to his hand. He has a few spades, that could work. 

“Sure.”

The woman groans. “Got a fuckin’ lone hand in hearts. Fuck me.”

When the round finishes, the man adjusts the scorecards. Nine to two. Just one more loss and it's over.

His next hand is less impressive than the first, and he doesn’t even get the chance to call for trump when the man ahead of him barks, “Hearts!”

He has no hearts. Great.

As he expects, he and the woman lose horribly. She gathers the cards into a pile. “You fuckin’ suck at cards. The fuck we even ask him?” she asks her friend accusingly.

He gets to his feet and moves to the other side of the encampment, out of line of sight and earshot. Yeah, he doesn’t need another person to tell him how useless he is.

He already knows.

 

* * *

 

At this point, he’s not sure how long he’s been living in the sewers. He only occasionally has to go aboveground for food or water. He’s on his way back up when a hand claps on his shoulder.

“You goin’ upside?” A rough voice asks.

Prompto turns around and nods slowly. The man’s hunching over, looking down so that his greasy hair hangs over his face. Alarm bells clang around Prompto’s head. “D-do you need something?”

The hand gripping his shoulder tightens momentarily, then without warning, Prompto is slammed against the sewer wall, hard enough to make his head spin. With a cry, he tries to pull away, but now the man’s gripping him by the shirt and throws him to the ground. 

He connects painfully with the hard cement, and pain blooms in his mouth. Hands roughly pull at his backpack, but it’s clipped around his chest and the assailant quickly gives up.

As Prompto carefully rises to his feet, he can hear furious footsteps running away, deeper into the sewers.

His heart pounds in his throat as he pushes back the manhole cover. It isn’t his first experience with someone trying to steal his things, but it’s definitely the most violent. He can feel the bruise swelling, and his eyes blur from the pain of pressing against it. 

Half in a daze, Prompto stumbles over to his preferred wishing well and digs up a few 500-gil coins. Enough for some granola bars, a sandwich, and a bottle of water. 

The cashier looks up when the bell to the store rings and a forced smile crosses her face before it’s quickly wiped away and she continues sweeping behind the register.

It doesn’t take long before he grabs everything and places it neatly on the countertop. The cashier nods at him and balances her broom against the wall. As she’s ringing up his items, he glances over at the newspaper and picks it up. 

The front page is a story about the Niff invasion into Cleigne. Apparently, some cities near Risorath Basin- Elhard, Krinst, and Youngtree- have been completely demolished by the MT soldiers. He skims past that story, then his eyes lock on the article below it. 

**“City Free of Niflheim’s Scourge”**

He quickly shoves money at the cashier as he frantically reads through the story. 

“ _ After more than two weeks, the MT units searching for the Lost Prince of Niflheim were expelled by King Regis Lucis Caelum. It had started to be common to see metal-clad soldiers marching down the strip mall, even guarded by Kingslgaive, but fortunately we no longer need to worry about what even a single soldier could do. We do not know whether or not the prince was located, or what Emperor Aldercapt plans to do about the situation as he has no other known heirs…” _

Some emotion he can’t quite place bubbles up inside him, and he can’t hold back a laugh. “They’re gone,” he murmurs.

The cashier looks at him with a raised brow. “Who’s gone now?”

Prompto shows her the article, and she visibly relaxes. “Oh, thank the Six. They would come in here every day just past 10. They wouldn’t do anything, just…. Stand there. Creepy, if you ask me.”

He tries hard not to think that an MT soldier might have stood exactly where he is standing and instead gathers up his change and items.

He doesn’t need to go back underground! He can stay up here where there are puppies and trees and sunshine, where the air doesn’t smell like… well, a sewer. 

After a few minutes of walking, he finds his favorite alleyway and crouches next to the dumpster as he scarfs down his food. It tastes better than usual, now that he’s not worried about messing up and getting dragged back to Ardyn. 

Things are starting to look up.

 

* * *

 

Prompto should have figured that the second he starts to think that, the world would conspire against him. It has been out to get him from birth.

This time, instead of a maniacal stalker, he is dealing with a cold. Comparatively, not the worst thing he’s faced. But loaded on top of the shitty weather, the lack of donations, and his inability to find a job, he’s about at the end of his rope. All he needs is for his socks to get wet, and he’ll be ready to jump off a fucking cliff.

… okay, that last one might be over-exaggerated, but not far off. He’s a prince! He should be dining on fine meat and resting on overstuffed mattresses, and taking too-long baths with hot water and  _ soap _ . He should  _ not _ be trying to fluff his backpack in an attempt to make it more comfortable to sleep on as he crashes on a park bench, shivering from the cold, and turned away from all the homeless shelters he’s found in the area. 

Each time, some kind soul has to look at him, smile sadly, and apologize that there’s no room, but he can warm up for a bit if he wants. 

They’re nice people, he admits that. But it still stings to get warm for a few minutes just to get kicked back outside before his shirt can even dry out properly. Soon. He just needs to find a job that pays well, then he can afford a studio apartment in the slums.

 

* * *

 

The rain from a few nights previously still chills his skin as he burrows into his coat. He has to blow his nose every other minute, and full-body sneezes rake his entire body every three. He sighs and leans his head back, letting it flop behind the edge of the wooden park bench.

The edge digs into his neck, but he feels the mucus traveling down his nose and coating his sore throat. If not for the uncomfortable feeling of his neck twisted at an angle it really shouldn’t be twisted, then he might have stayed in that position.

With the willpower of Titan holding the Meteor aloft, he straightens, groaning as his nose almost immediately clogged back up. It’s nearing midnight, and he really needs to sleep.

He finds the closest park bench he can, unfortunately, one close to the side streets, but it’s the closest one he can find so he unhooks his backpack and lays it down on the bench as a pillow. He’s got more clothes in there now so it’s marginally softer, but after more than a decade and a half of sleeping on the finest mattresses and pillows money could buy, he’s starting to think that he’s not quite cut out for the life of “roughing it” yet.

As he’s starting to think this, his eyelids grow heavier and heavier, and his breathing deepens, until he’s fast asleep.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up to his head bobbing up and down and something jostling his arms, as if someone’s hand is underneath his head. At first, he’s slow to open his eyes, but he registers a whispered, “Careful! You’ll wake him up!” which shoots adrenaline through his system faster than you could say “puppy in danger”.

His arms, once loose through the straps of his backpack, renew their grip and tug away from a gangly man with well-coiffed hair. 

“Let go!” he shouts, trying to tear his backpack, his lifeline, his  _ life _ , from this man, but another set of hands, this time from a shorter but no less skinny man, join the first’s, and they both have leverage and manage to tear him from the park bench.

“Please! Let it go, it’s mine!” He shouts. The fall loosens his grip slightly, but he’s ready to bear tooth and claw. He still has clothes and money and his  _ camera _ -

There’s the sound of a car engine abruptly cutting short and an authoritative voice calls out, “What is the meaning of this racket?”

Prompto doesn’t even bother waiting around. He’s  been around cops long enough to know how they treat people like  _ him _ . These two nice Lucians will tell the police officers that this crazy homeless Niff tried to steal their backpack, and he would be sent to prison. Then his face would circulate. His father would find him-  _ Ardyn  _ would find him. He couldn’t- he refuses to let himself be caught.

Almost instinctively, he lets go of the backpack and bolted into the maze of alleyways. Now that he has spent several months navigating through Insomnia’s underbelly, he quickly finds his way to his usual haunt, pulling the dumpster from the wall and flipping the lid up as usual as droplets of rain begins to fall.

Only then, when he has the chance to think, does he realize what he has just lost.

_ Everything _ .

He hugs his knees to his chest, trying hard not to cry. He…. it’s okay. He got to this point once. He could do it again. Better, this time. Quicker. He doesn’t need to hide for months on end from the MT soldiers. He knows where to beg and how to look pitiable for the most money. He knows the people who could help him and the people who could set him back. He would be okay.

But no matter how hard he tries to convince himself, the tears start to fall. He has so many  _ photos _ , so many pictures still on his camera, how would he recover the memories? How could he-

“Excuse me?” a cautious voice asks, way too close for comfort.

Prompto sits ramrod straight as a well-dressed man in glasses leans forward, offering… his backpack?

“Is this yours?” he asks with a gentle smile.

Hope blossoms in Prompto’s chest, frail and fragile. He reaches out to grab the backpack, wondering if the man is going to tug it away and ask for some payment.

But he lets go easily as Prompto snatches it away, digging through its contents to make sure everything is still inside.

“I saw those two men trying to steal your backpack. You should really keep it safer. Perhaps a backpack lock?” he suggests. 

But Prompto’s busy shuffling through his photos to see if he notices any missing. No, they’re all there. So’s his camera, his money, his dirty chocobo plush, his clothes. Tears start to glisten in the corner of his eyes and he scrounges for a few hundred gil from his stash. He hands the money over to the man who rescued his backpack.

“H-here,” he stutters, “Thanks. For giving my backpack back.”

The man looks surprised, then shakes his head. “I don’t want or need your money-”

“Th-then I have a granola bar here, please, let me say thank you for-”

“If you want to say thank you,” the man holds up his hand in a placating manner, “then let me help you further. The rain is getting worse, and my apartment is close by. If you are comfortable, you can spend the night at my house. No one should live on the streets on a night like this.”

Prompto stares up at him, trying to discern if there’s any underlying malice in the man’s face. It takes him a few seconds to realize he doesn’t care. The man could be as bad as Ardyn, but he longs for even just a comfortable bed for just one night that he is willing to put up with anything as long as it gets him out of this godsforsaken rain and into a warm home.

He gets to his feet, slings his backpack over his shoulders and snaps it closed over his chest. “Thank you very much.”   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant for only a few days between updates. Whoops XP


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto's benefactor takes him to his apartment and offers many things. Surely, this has to be a trap?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thursday, y'all. I'm back home for break so I figured I'd rough up our precious boi XP

The man’s car purrs as they pull away from the side street, all sleek and modern. He obviously has a lot of money, and the thought puts Prompto on edge. Why would someone as rich as this even bother with  _ him _ unless they plan to do something...sinister. 

Even though he thought he’d be okay with being used or whatever, he finds his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest as the man pulls into an underground parking lot. He follows the man to a gilded elevator with plush black carpet and shiny gold walls. It reminds him almost painfully of home. This man  _ has _ to be a noble of some sort with the sort of luxury he lives in. 

The elevator ride ends quickly, and soon, the man is unlocking a rich mahogany door and pushing it open.

For all the swank and swagger of the hallway and elevator, this room at least seems… subdued. There’s still granite countertops and what feels like real wood floors, but there’s no gold, no ornate chairs or tables, or anything like he expects. It’s actually surprisingly spartan, save for the mess in the kitchen or the double shelves brimming over with books.

“If you wish to take a shower, I can clean your clothes for you. Then if you need food, I have leftover soup from this afternoon,” the man offers.

Prompto curls his hands into fists. “W-why are you doing this?” he asks, “What do you want from me?” Maybe if the man just comes out and says it, it will be easier to swallow. It was easier with Ardyn.

The man frowns slightly. “I don’t suppose you remember, do you?” he murmurs. Then he continues before the blond can get a word in edgewise, “A while back, of the Eve of Crystal’s Light I, along with some of my friends, found you under attack. We brought you to an Insomnian hospital but didn’t bother to make sure that you had a place to live once the doctors released you. I wanted to make up for that oversight.”

Now it’s Prompto’s turn to be confused. Of course, the man would make up an excuse, but it… it makes sense. In fact… he…. He might be telling the truth.

The thought tugs at Prompto’s chest, making hope blossom painfully hard. He wishes that he can just ignore the feeling so when the man inevitably betrays him, it doesn’t hurt so bad.

He nods quickly, then pulls his cleanest set of clothes from his backpack and passes the rest over to the man. As Prompto steps into the bathroom, he turns around, and says, “Um, thank you… Mr…” he trails off as he realizes he doesn’t know the man’s name.

“Ignis,” the man responds with a smile, “you can call me Ignis.”

Prompto nods then clutches his clothes tight to his chest. “Thank you, Ignis.”

  
  


* * *

 

The shower is incredible, better than anything he could have imagined. The last time he took a real shower with good hot water had been…. Gods, back when he was still living at the palace? How long ago? Six months? More? He tries not to think about it as he slips out of his clothes and into the shower.

It’s… he can’t even think of the words to describe the feeling of the hot water cascading down his matted hair and over his weary body. It feels like… like the way those songs to the Hexatheon make him feel: light, at peace, ecstatic. 

He might have to make a new ode to hot water.

He spends longer than he ought to in the shower. He probably runs up a sizeable water bill, but can’t bring himself to care. It feels so good, he might fall asleep standing straight up if not for the gritty hair dye washing out of his hair.

Finally, he manages to gather the willpower to shut off the water and step out into the steamy air. The floor isn’t heated, unfortunately, but he shouldn’t expect too much from this man’s house. After all, heated floors aren’t common in the temperate climate of Lucis.

When he steps out, he sees Ignis sitting on the couch with a book held loosely in one hand. He’s wearing more comfortable clothes, Prompto notices. Easy to get out of. He’s glad that he’s wearing jeans. Harder to force someone out of.

Ignis looks up as he steps out of the bathroom. His eyes widen, then he wipes the look off his face into one of neutrality. “You clean up nicely,” he says, “would you like something to eat?”

The growl of Prompto’s stomach serves as an answer. Ignis smiles then fetches a bowl of soup from the fridge and heats it in the microwave. “I call it Green Curry Soup,” he says. “My charge didn’t quite like it, but he avoids to all manner of vegetables. I hope you’re less picky.”

The smell that wafts from the reheated bowl of soup advertises itself. Even if he  _ didn’t _ like vegetables, his tongue and stomach probably wouldn’t mind. He finds himself bouncing his leg while waiting for the soup to cool down enough that he won’t scald his tongue. 

In the meantime, Ignis sets a glass of water in front of him and sits down across from him.

“Would you mind giving your name?” he asks mildly. 

Prompto glances up nervously. Does he somehow  _ know _ ? How could he? Is he going to turn him in?

“P-prompto,” he responds. 

Ignis smiles. “Prompto. Nice to meet you. Would you like anything else while waiting for the soup to cool?”

The blond shakes his head and immediately spoons soup into his mouth to avoid a conversation. The soup still scalds his tongue slightly, but the taste explodes in his mouth in a kaleidoscope of flavors. It seems at first taste that there should be some clash of flavor at the sheer variety of tastes but the more he eats, the more they meld together in harmony. It’s better than anything he’s had in the past several months, and about on par with his life back in Niflheim.

“Are you quite alright? Is it too spicy for you?” Ignis asks, leaning forward and furrowing his eyebrows in concern.

Prompto looks up and realizes that the form in front of him blurring. He blinks back tears that have started to well up in his eyes. “Yes,” he manages, “It’s really good.”

Ignis looks at a loss for words. Then he clears his throat, and Prompto catches the faintest hint of a blush dusting his cheeks. “Well, I’m glad you appreciate fine cuisine. If you need more, please let me know.”

Prompto stuffs his face with the gods-blessed food too fast to bother replying and before he knows it, he’s scraping the bottom of the bowl for all the soup he can. Then he perks up as he hears another bowl scraping across the table. 

“You enjoy with the soup, I suppose?” Ignis asks. 

Prompto nods dumbly. For the first time in his recent memory, he can actually get… full. Of good food. He’s warm, he’s clean, he’s getting full. He might be living in a dream. One he doesn’t want to wake up from.

By the time he finishes the second bowl of soup, his eyes are drooping and he can barely think about anything except sleeping. 

Ignis gently grabs him by the upper arm and steers him through a door into… into the bedroom. 

Panic bubbles under the surface, ready to churn into anxiety, but then he finds himself lying flat on one of the most comfortable mattresses he’s ever slept on and he figures that whatever this man is going to do to him in the bedroom, he can do.

Ignis pulls the covers over his clothes, then switches off the light as he exits. 

Prompto only has time to vaguely wonder where he’s going before he falls into a deep sleep

 

* * *

 

“Oh, my sweet, you’ve come back to me,” a honeyed voice speaks from beside him, and he jerks upright, staring back at-

_ Ardyn _ .

His husband is lounging next to him on a bed he doesn’t recognize, completely undressed. His infamous smarmy grin curls his lips in a predatory smile. “You think you can run away from  _ me? _ Even on the other side of the globe, I will find you.  _ You are mine _ .”

Thick hands reach out for him and he bats them away with a yelp. “Stop! No!” He tumbles out of bed and reaches for the closest weapon, a thick book, and holds it in front of him threateningly. “I’m not yours anymore! You won’t  _ touch _ me.”

Prompto blinks, and then Ardyn’s gone. In the next moment, a cold hand clamps down on his shoulder  _ hard _ and spins him around so fast he gets dizzy.

“I don’t recall asking your permission, my dear,” Ardyn grits, shoving him back before he can recover. “Your fate was decided long before your dear father gave you to me. I will be the new king, and you will be my pawn.”

Ardyn looms over him, a terrifying daemon with glowing eyes and blackened skin, and his fingers claw into his shoulder, and his teeth-

Prompto wakes up with a gasp, stifling hot under thick, oppressive covers.

Despite his shaking arms, he pushes the duvet aside and curls his legs up to his chest. He’s not with Ardyn. Ardyn’s not here, Ardyn thinks he’s dead.

He’s safe.

But still, the phantom feeling of the chancellor’s hand on his shoulder digs into his skin and leaves him feeling dirty.

Ignis looks up as he exits the bedroom. “Ah, you’ve awakened. Would you like breakfast? Or, I suppose at this time, lunch?”

Prompto glances over to the clock on the wall. 12:04. He somehow slept until noon. The first time he’s done  _ that _ in a while. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he says. “Otherwise, I want to thank you for your hospitality. If you ever need anything-” he starts.

“Actually, I do have one more request,” Ignis interrupts. He gestures for Prompto to sit at the dining room table, which he does, albeit reluctantly. His back and legs don’t hurt, so he figures Ignis didn’t do anything to him at night. He had hoped his rich guy wouldn’t be the type that wants his victims to be awake for it all, but Ignis’ words dash that fragile hope.

“I mentioned earlier that I feel responsible for your… state of affairs, yes?” Ignis asks. 

Prompto nods.

“I… am in a position of some authority in the Citadel. I have contacted the relevant personnel, and, provided you pass the background check, they wish to employ you.”

It takes Prompto a moment to process what Ignis said - the opposite of what he expected. “A- people want to give me a job?” He asks, as though afraid putting it into his own words would make Ignis retract his offer.

“Yes. The Citadel kitchens often require more help than they have. I can’t promise an end to all your troubles, but the job provides simple lodgings and a living wage, and I’d imagine decent meals too.”

“Wait… they provide lodgings, you mean they’ll give me a place to live?” He scarcely believes his ears. A hole that started to solidify in his chest suddenly bubbles up with hope. He has an opportunity to work, to  _ live _ .

Ignis nods. “I wouldn’t expect anything like mine, but the Citadel keeps its housing clean and well-maintained. Most folks tend to live in bigger, more upscale apartments, but the offer is there for those that prefer convenience.”

“H-h-how do I apply? When can I?” Thoughts swirl in front of his vision, too fast to catch. He can almost  _ taste _ the smell of food in the air as he assists chefs in the underbelly of a castle. 

“First, you must complete a background check. I don’t suppose you have birth records or the like?”

All at once, the hope that filled that hole falls back to his toes, and the familiar feeling of despair floods in its stead. “Um, no. I-I don’t.”

Ignis hums. “Then an interview will be necessary. Unfortunate Drautos is still on the front lines. I suppose Cor will have to do. I will schedule a meeting with him shortly.” Ignis pulls out his cell phone and steps onto the veranda.

The hope again bubbles up, tentative. He can lie his way through an interview. After living his whole life with his father, he can tell a bald-faced lie with barely a blink. He needs to plan, though. Why he lives alone on the streets on Insomnia. Why his records are missing. Why his parents can’t be contacted. 

Ignis steps back a few minutes later. “Cor has an opening in an hour and a half. It will take at most fifteen minutes to get to the Citadel, so you have time to relax. Would you like to watch television? I’m afraid I don’t have any game systems.”

Prompto glances up at him. “Um, I- I’m fine with whatever.”

Ignis nods. “Then I’ll put on the cooking channel. As you can likely tell, I quite enjoy it. Which reminds me,” he says, pulling a plate from the refrigerator. “I made breakfast for you. Unless you’d prefer the soup again.”

Prompto devours the food quickly, thinking between bites. He has a lot of planning to do before he meets this “Cor”. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cor interviews Prompto, and the plot moves slightly forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter, friends! and happy Sunday to those who don't celebrate it!

 

Prompto hugs his backpack to his stomach as he waits for “Cor” to arrive for the interview. He wonders what kind of man Cor would be. Would he be like his father, cold and indifferent, or overbearing and oppressive, like Ardyn? Perhaps rough and angry like Glauca, or even clever and ambitious as Verstael. 

Then he blinks and shakes his head. No, he can’t think like that. He’s not the prince of Niflheim anymore. He’s Prompto Argentum of Cleigne. Simple farmboy.

“Prompto?” A voice calls, and the bond blond jumps to his feet. A tall man with simple brown hair and stubble motions him through the door, and he follows, still clutching his backpack like a lifeline. “Ignis referred you, hm?” he asks.

“Uh- yes, sir.” 

“Okay, take a seat in my office. Over there,” he motions for him to sit down.

Prompto obeys tentatively. Though he spent the better part of an hour preparing, he feels his heart starting to beat in his ears. He just has to stay calm, stick to his alibi, and he should be good.

“So, Prompto, tell me, where are you from? I don’t have much more information than your name.”

He bites back the eagerness that would seem all too suspicious. “Youngtree,” he says, “near Risorath Basin. In Cleigne.”

A dark cloud casts over Cor’s face. “I see. That explains your lack of papers. Were you present for the invasion?

Prompto ducks his head. “No. I… was… I was away.”

“Where were you?”

“Galadin Quay.”

“Purpose of your visit?”

The speed of the questions spin his head around, and his heartbeat is even louder now. He wasn’t expecting this line of questioning, why won’t he ask more about his family, his job?

“Purpose of your visit?” Cor asks again, peering up at Prompto though his face is leveled at his list of questions.

“Uh... h-honeymoon.” he manages to stutter out. His grip tightens around his backpack strap. 

Cor sits up at that. “You’re married?” he asks. 

_ Shit shit shit _ , Prompto thinks, he fucked up. “I- kinda? I’m not sure it’s official yet,” he stutters.

“Not official? Who are you married to?”

He has to think fast. “I-I never knew his name.” 

Cor tilts his head to the side, sitting back and crossing his arms. “You never learned the name of your husband?”

Prompto takes a deep breath. He’s got this back on the rails. “I… I didn’t exactly  _ choose _ to marry him. He just promised my father money. My father’s… he’s a simple man.”

“I see. And were you amenable to the arrangement?”

“N-not really. I mean, at first, it was whatever,” he shrugs. This part, at least, is easy. He doesn’t even have to lie. “But he’s… skeevy? I guess? He… he can be kind of forceful. About… um, stuff…”

“Sex,” Cor says.

His voice surprises a nod out of Prompto. 

“That man raped you?” 

_ There are those words again. Rape.  _ “I- yeah,” he says, voice thick with disgust and tears. 

Cor sighs and looks down at his notes. “What’s your father’s name? Selling children is a grave crime in the kingdom of Lucis.”

“No!” Prompto shouts, “please, don’t say anything.” His breath comes heavy and fast in his chest. “If you let him know I’m alive… he won’t stop coming for me, please.” He meets Cor’s eyes, putting on his best pleading face.

“We can protect you,” Cor responds, “but if you’re really sure-”

“I am. Please.”

“...alright. Then... The records of Youngtree have been mostly destroyed. Normally we would look for outside sources to search for family members or the like, but in this case…” he trails off, staring hard at Prompto. “In this case, I would be satisfied with surveillance on all exits of the home and limited surveillance on outgoing and incoming messages. Does that sound acceptable?”

Prompto blinks. “Surveillance?”

“Nothing that would infringe on your privacy, I assure you. While inside your home, you are free to do as you wish. Any phone calls you make will be surveilled by a covert operative and will be on a few seconds delay so if you start to divulge any secrets, the line can be cut. The guards will likely keep an eye on you for the first week or so as well.”

“Oh, okay.”

Cor sighs. “The security is tight, I know. We had an… incident, about 20 years back. Probably more, who knows. Especially looking like you do… If you have any concerns or problems, contact Ignis, he’ll know what to do. If you’re uncomfortable with the level of surveillance, also contact- gods, no. Schedule an appointment with me, I’ll try to figure it out. Nothing like this has happened before, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

A surprised snort of laughter escapes Prompto’s lips and he bites it back. 

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll approve your application. I heard from Ignis your living situation is unique?” he asks. “Then stay in the waiting room, and I’ll send Celina to retrieve you. 

Prompto blinks. “I’ll have my own apartment already?” he asks.

Cor looks at Prompto for a few moments, then nods. “It’s nothing fancy, kid. But yeah.”

 

* * *

 

The apartment is the best thing he’s ever seen. It’s about the side of his bathroom back in the castle, but it’s a roof over his head, and he has his own bed, and he has a lock, and a shower, and a  _ couch _ .

He tries to blink back the tears as Celina shows him around the room. “And here, the bed can be raised up so you can have a desk or workspace underneath. If you have any problems with the taps, the maintenance workers’ numbers are listed on the inside of the sink cabinets.”

Prompto drinks in the woman’s every word as she prattles on and on about the ins and outs of apartment ownership. She seems to be relieved that he’s paying so close attention as she explains how to care for his living space, and leaves him with a friendly smile.

When she closes the doors behind her, he flops down on the bed and buries his head into the mattress to muffle his dopey laughter. He had actually done it! He was actually doing it!

Prompto decides he likes the idea of lofting his bed. Though it takes some effort to do it alone, he relishes the feeling of his muscles straining and pulling, and the exhaustion he feels after it’s done. 

But he’s not done yet. 

He folds his clothes neatly into piles at the bottom of his closet. He doesn’t have hangers yet, and there’s no way he has enough money to buy a dresser any time soon. But he doesn’t have many clothes either, and they fit perfectly in his closet.

Then he sets up his food in the kitchen. He still has his half-eaten sandwich, a few granola bars and a plastic Gatorade bottle he uses for water. He sets those carefully in his cupboards. His meager hygiene products more than fit into his bathroom drawer. Then, his prized possession: his camera. He sets that on the tiny table shoved into one corner, then fans the pictures around it. It’s really pretty, now that he has his own place to store them instead of inside a dirty plastic bag.

He’s figuring out how he wants to display them more permanently when there’s a knock on his door.

Immediately, his heart jumps in his throat. Who could that possibly be? Did Cor figure out his deception? Did he bring father or Ardyn down on him? 

Carefully, Prompto creeps close to the door and peers through the peephole. His heart rate immediately begins to subside as he recognizes Ignis waiting patiently on the other side of the door. He opens it.

“Ah, Prompto, I see you’re getting settled in. May I enter?”

The blond blinks at the request. That’s right, this is  _ his _ house. Now, Ignis is the guest. “Of- of course! Would you like something to drink? Or... I still have those granola bars. Or maybe-”

“No thank you,” Ignis responds. “I just wanted to drop a few things off,” he says, lifting the plastic bag that Prompto hadn’t noticed until now. “Some food basics, some basics for food and hygiene. I don’t know what you might already have, so I got a wide variety. It’s not perfect, but it will help you get your feet on the ground while you work to make your own money.”

Prompto purses his lips. “You… you’re doing too much,” he says.

Ignis looks momentarily startled, then nods. “I… I see. This must seem condescending, then?”

“A little,” Prompto responds.

“Then let us make a deal. I provide you with the food, and you can cook me and yourself a meal. Does that sound equitable?”

He thinks for a moment. “I don’t know how to cook that much. But if you have spaghetti and marinara sauce I can make that.”

Ignis pulls the supplies from his bag. “Well, then, I can’t wait to taste it.”

 

* * *

 

Prompto realizes as he moves to the kitchen that he has no tools to make anything. Not even a pot. 

“Perhaps one of your neighbors will be willing to spare you one? It shouldn’t be terribly inconvenient,” Ignis suggests.

Though the last first impression Prompto wants to make is begging his neighbors for cooking utensils, he really doesn’t have much choice. 

His first neighbor doesn’t seem to be home, but the second one opens his door to reveal a bleary-eyed man with short black-ish brown hair. “Hm?” he asks, “Who’re you?”

“I- I just moved in. Over there. Do you have a pot I can borrow?”

The man’s eyebrows raise. “Oh, shit, yeah.” He leaves Prompto standing by the open door for a long minute before arriving back with a sizeable pot. “Anything else? First move-in is always a bitch. Gotta get everything.”

“Do you have a thing to, like, strain spaghetti?”  
“Like a colander? Yeah. Got one of those too.” 

Prompto leaves his neighbor’s door with profuse thanks as he stumbles back into his own apartment, where Ignis has been scrolling through his phone. “It’ll just be a bit longer. Oh, shit, I forgot to ask for plates!” he curses.

“Actually,” Ignis pipes up, dragging a set of paper plates from yet another bag, “I came prepared.”

Relief washes through him. “Okay. Then one order of spaghetti, coming right up!” 

 

* * *

 

Ignis thanks him for the meal as he leaves, leaving Prompto with a warm feeling in the pit of his stomach, like the feeling of a soft blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He starts to flop into bed before he remembers. He can take a shower. He can brush his teeth!

A giggle bubbles up in his chest and he half-skips to the bathroom. 

That might, as night, as he stares at the ceiling practically a foot away from his nose, he gives thanks to Shiva, or Bahamut, or whichever deity decided to take pity on him and grant mercy. 

He drifts off into a dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto gets a promotion with some... unintended side effects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> daaaaamn it's been too long. I've been working way too slowly on this guy, I've just been tired with getting out of college, getting a real job, and being a real-life actual adult. Luckily the job I have right now is super chill and I can work on fanfic, so hopefully there won't be as long of a wait for the next chapter -.-

Prompto wakes up the next morning to a knock on his door. Despite trying to convince himself that it’s probably nothing, he finds himself barely able to support his own weight as he clambers down the ladder to the floor.

He peers out the peephole and sees Celina, holding a clipboard and looking busy. He carefully opens the door.

“Ah, Prompto!” she says, we need to get going! Your first day starts soon, are you ready?”

Confusion swirls around his brain, but he nods anyway. 

“Great! You’ll need black pants and closed-toe shoes. Go ahead and get changed, and I’ll get you the rest of your uniform.”

“Um,” Prompto said, “I don’t have black pants. I have grey sweatpants, if that works.”

Celina sighs. “For now it will do. But make it a priority to get black pants.” She doesn’t even wait for him to reply before she turns out of the doorway and closes it behind her.

He quickly changes into the appropriate clothes, wishing he spent a bit more money to look a bit more presentable. Looking from her to him, there’s a big difference, even if she’s in the same dark pants and closed-toe shoes she instructed him to be in. Hers are tailored and pressed. Clean. She probably bought them new or lightly used. His… his he scrounged around dumpsters and used-good shops so decrepit some of the clothes couldn’t even be worn.

But he doesn’t have to do that any more. Cor said he’d get a “living wage”. He’d make enough to dress like the woman in front of him. 

He follows Celina down a set of stairs, 3, 4, 5 levels. She ushers him down labyrinthine passageways until they come to an unobtrusive door labelled “Dish”. Behind the door, Prompto hears clattering and clamping, and pumping music thumping in time with his hammering heart. Celina pushes open the door, revealing a bustling assembly line. Plates make their way from the outside and loop around the wall, where a series of workers scrape food off, load them into plastic squares and stack them once they’re clean.

“Ah, Joni!” Celina called, beckoning over a heavy-set woman with a headset, “This is Prompto. He’s gonna be your new worker starting today. I’m gonna show him around, then he’s all yours!”

Joni smiles and extends a hand. Prompto stares at it for a few moments before taking it. Her hand is warm and gentle in his, and he holds himself back from grabbing her up in a hug just as warm and gentle as her touch. How long has it been since someone has touched him like this? How long has it been since someone even  _ looked  _  him in the  _ eyes _ ? Before Ignis? Months, probably.

“It’s great to meet you!” Joni interrupts his train of thought with a bright smile. “I’m sure you’ll fit right in!”

Then Celina draws him through a set of double doors into the mess hall. There’s easily a few hundred people milling around a series of buffet lines, sitting at tables, or walking in. 

“This is the mess hall. Both Crownsguard and Kingsglaive eat here. Most Glaives are on the front lines right now, but they should be back at the end of the month. Now, let’s move on to the kitchen…”

 

* * *

 

Prompto’s lead back into the dishroom with a new hat and shirt. Joni welcomes him just as warmly as before. “For the rest of today, you’ll stick to me and I’ll show you how it all goes. I‘m sure you’ll pick it up quickly!”

He does his absolute best fo follow her instructions to the letter Every time she praises him, elation lightens the load on his shoulders and lets him breathe a little deeper. 

“Why,” she says after a few hours, “I think you’ll be ready to work on your own tomorrow! I haven’t seen such a quick study since, well… probably Genovo over there!” She gestures over to a ballcapped man hunched over the pots and pans sink. The man turns around and winks. 

“Finally some decent competition,” he says.

Prompto smiles back at him. “I’ll do my best to work hard,” he promises.

 

* * *

 

The next day starts much like the first, though he has the added stress of not knowing what time it is. You would think alarm clocks would be standard in these rooms, but apparently in Lucis, such marvels of engineering are only accessible to the rich and powerful. 

Thankfully, he’s used to waking up ungodly early. Instead of guessing what time he needs to be ready, or even worse, relying on his neighbors to clue him in, he merely gets dressed for work and heads down to the mess hall. He’s usually an hour or so early, but since he’s allowed a meal for any shift he works, it’s hardly wasted, as he fills up on simple but delicious breakfast foods. 

It’s no hand-made omelette with shredded cheese, diced peppers, and red pepper flakes, but the scrambled eggs and pancakes keep him satisfied, and that makes him happy all the same.

Joni was right, too. He  _ does _ find his way around the dishroom easily, shifting around to the different stations every fifteen minutes. Every so often, he’ll approach her with a task he doesn’t quite remember how to complete, or one that he wasn’t trained on, and she’ll walk him through it with a seemingly infinite patience. 

He smiles as he scrubs a particularly stubborn stain from the bowl he is washing. He can do this.

 

* * *

 

“Honestly, fuck any person that puts their peanut butter into these tiny fucking bowls,” Serena growls, dunking the aforementioned “fucking bowl” into the sink channel and moving on to the next dish rumbling towards the washing station.

“Does that mean if I put peanut butter in a bowl, you’ll fuck me?” Genovo pipes up from the Float station.

Serena snorts, Joni pretends to be angry, and Prompto and Iara share a roll of the eyes. “If ramming a rolling pin up your ass is what you consider to be good sex, then sure,” she responds, handing Prompto dishes to load into the machine.

“Ohh, kinky.”

“Alright,” Joni interrupts, “Focus on our work. I’d hate for HR to come by and y’all get in trouble.” She pauses. “Well, I’d hate for Genovo to get in trouble. Serena, there’s really no help for you.”

The tall brunette scowls playfully before returning her focus to her task.

That lasts about three minutes, before another small bowl trundles across the conveyor belt towards the washing station. “I swear to the gods…” she mumbles, swiping the container before it could inch any closer. 

“Oh, no, it’s  _ eggs _ .  _ Great! _ ” She hisses. “I  _ love _ cleaning up eggs. They’re so much fucking  _ fun! _ ”

“Careful or you’ll pop a blood vessel,” Prompto points out.

“Blondie’s got a point. If you can’t handle a simple bowl, then perhaps you’d be better suited for another station. An easier one. Perhaps, royal babysitter?” Genovo suggests.

Serena doesn’t dignify his response with an answer. Instead, she turns to Prompto. “Hey, Iara and I are going to see that new movie that came out yesterday. The cartoon one. Want to see it?” she asks.

“Wow, am I not invited?” Genovo pipes up.

Again Serena ignores him. 

Prompto bites his lip. He has the money to go see it now, and he genuinely wants to go with them. But… but he still has to be conscientious. As when he was living on the streets, people went out of their way to not look at him to the point of hilarity some times. But now, he… he wasn’t invisible. And he couldn’t risk being public.

“I… I’d love to, but I can’t. Sorry,” he responds.

Serena sighs. “Alright. If you get some free time around 7:00, let us know, you can still tag along. Iara, you have 5 seats in your car, right?”

Iara nods.

“Yeah, so you can tag along last second if you want,” the brunette tells him.

Prompto is in the middle of responding when a harried-looking middle-aged man bursts through the door from the kitchens and flicks his eyes around the room before settling on Joni.

“Thank the Six, please tell me you got someone working here trained in etiquette.”

Prompto perks up at that. His father made sure that he was proficient in all forms of decorum, with lessons beaten into his back and legs. But he can hardly fathom why a dish washer would need to be so trained.

Joni frowns. “No, I think Pietro has some experience but he doesn’t come until dinner. Sor-”

“I’m trained,” Prompto raises his hand. He’s not quite sure what he would need the etiquette training to do, but it would probably involve a bonus of some sort. “By my father.”

The man looks relieved. “Please, I gotta take him. Harley called out sick last minute, and Dahlia is still out on maternity leave, and Jacob got injured last night.”

Joni shrugs. “Sure. I’ll just switch some people around. We don’t really need a float,” She smiles at Prompto. “Good luck.”

The blond barely has time to respond before the man drags him by the wrist out the door and to the elevator a few hallways down.

“We need to stop by the catering department for a better outfit, then I’ll have to debrief you, and make sure…” the man starts to mutter to himself, then turns to Prompto. “What is the proper greeting for a duke of Lucis?” 

Prompto blinks back the surprise. “Your Grace.” 

The man nods, then continues firing questions at him about the order of meals at a formal banquet, the rule for food order, utensil usage, everything under the sun. The man nods at Prompto’s answers, apparently satisfied. “I think this will work out,” he says.

“I-if you don’t mind my asking, what am I being asked to do? Am I serving someone?”

The man nods. “His Majesty and His Highness eat breakfast and lunch together most weekends. Our regular servers are gone, we’re pretty desperate.

The blond’s stomach drops to his feet. He… he’s going to serve Lucian royalty. Thousands of questions flicker through his head. The Lucian royals are known for their… less than savory battle tactics, their ruthlessness and efficiency when battling. They throw the lives of their people away without a care, like most monarchs. He’s not sure he can stomach being in such close proximity to people like that.

The man seems to notice Prompto’s hesitance and pats him comfortingly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, they won’t bite your head off,” he says with a small smile. “Just stay out of the way and you’ll do well.”

Despite the nervousness roiling in his gut, Prompto nods. 

The elevator lurches to a stop, and the man motions him through a set of double doors into a storage room of some kind. 

“Here, what size are you? I got a few here that might fit.” The man holds up a crisp white button-up shirt and a pair of black slacks.

Prompto tries to remember if he was ever told his measurements or if the tailor just shoved clothes at him and hoped for the best. “I- I’m not sure.”

The man sighs and holds the clothes out. “We don’t have much time. Get into these. There’s a bathroom down the hall. Hurry it up.”

Prompto snaches the clothes away and bustles to change into the crisp clothing. It hangs off his frame, but the sleeves brush the edge of his palm as they should, and the pants don’t trip him as he returned to the man’s side. 

“Good enough. Come on, we’re running low on time,” the man continued, “You’ll get the food from the dumbwaiter down the hall, then bring it into the Lower Dining Hall, where the prince and king take their meals together.”

Though the man keeps talking, spouting words like a gushing fountain, Prompto finds his attention wandering to the thoughts swirling in his head. How can he serve Lucian royalty? What would his people think if it ever came out what he had done? Working in the underbelly and serving the soldiers is a forgettable job. Once he leaves, he doubts anyone will remember him. But this job has prestige, attention. He’s taking a risk, but… but he’s selfish. He wants better food, more room, and more money.

“Did you get all that?” the man asks, and Prompto nods. “Alright. Here.” he lifts open a metal door about three feet tall and drags out a wheeled cart loaded down with foods he has only dreamed of since he left home. It takes a significant amount of willpower for him not to devour it right away.

“Just wheel this into the room, place one before each person, and stand back. If they request more, there is an intercom here to communicate with the kitchen. Are there any questions you have?”

Prompto pauses. There are so many he can’t think of. Just minutes ago, he was talking with his coworkers and washing dishes, and now he’s… he’s about to serve a foreign king. Gathering his courage with a sigh, he shakes his head. “I’m ready,” he murmurs.

Then he’s half-shoved through the door and into the Lower Dining Room. he takes a moment to stare at the opulence, then lowers his gaze to the food.

“...and then she said she wanted to go out with me,” the prince was slouched over the table, resting his chin in his hand boredly. Prompto wondered why he was behaving so poorly in front of his father. Especially now that another person was in the room? He hoped the prince wouldn’t be punished too badly.

“And what did you say in response?” The king asked. 

“I said no, of- wait, what?” 

Prompto glances up in surprise and meets his gaze. “I-I’m new,” he says, though his heart flutters in his chest at the prince’s piercing gaze.

“Yeah, you’re that one guy!” A smile breaks over the young royal’s face, “from Galadin. Good to see you’re okay, man.”

The blond can only blink as the prince continues his conversation as if there was no pause. Then he fumbles with the plates, setting them in front of each person, shrinking away as each one looks at him and thanks him. The attention, the spotlight trained on him makes him feel like one of Verstael’s lab specimens and his heart starts to hammer in his chest. 

“Pardon me, what’s your name?”

Prompto jerks his head to the side and meets the king’s gaze. “I-uh, Prompto, Your Majesty.”

“Then, Prompto, would you mind requesting more of these eggs? They’re simply divine.”

With a nod, he hurries out the door and jabs and the intercom button. A few minutes later, he scuttles back with a tray of more scrambled eggs than one person could reasonably eat at one time.

“Say, that was the name of that one Niff prince who died or went missing or whatever?” the prince asks

Panic courses through his veins and his legs wobble with anxiety. “U-uh… yeah.”

“Huh. Must be a popular name over there?”

“Y-yeah…” he responds, praying that the conversation would move over to something else,  _ anything _ else.

“Say, Noctis,” the king cuts in, “How have your sessions with Gladio been? I haven’t heard much from either of you.”

Almost immediately, the prince’s face shuts down. “Fine.”

“Oh. So you  _ haven’t _ been conveniently forgetting and disappearing from your lessons?” the king asks pointedly.

The prince’s pinched face tells it all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis surprises Prompto with a question, and Prompto makes a chilling discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: *has the next two chapters drafted out, just need to make minor edits and post it*
> 
> Also me: *goes like two weeks without posting bc she's a forgetful dumbass*

The next day, Prompto makes his way to the dishroom, but Joni furrows her brows in confusion.

“I thought Terus said he needed you the entire week,” she says. 

Panic pounds through Prompto, as if he slept through an important alarm. “I-I thought it was a one-time thing, I didn’t realize...” he manages, “I-I’ll go right away! 

He hurries to the catering wing, vaguely impressed with himself for actually finding his way through the twisting hallways. Terus is waiting there, glancing nervously at his wristwatch. He sees Prompto and visibly relaxes. “Ah, you’re here. Thank the Six. Come on and get changed, the king has a Council meeting in two hours.”

Much like the previous day, Prompto fetches the food and communicates with the kitchen, but he mostly stays out of the way. He remembers servants back home acting similar, so he mimics their actions. It seems to please Terus, who rewards him with a pat on the back at the end of the breakfast. 

“Say,” the man says, “I know this is rather sudden, but you’ve been doing so well with little training. The employee who usually works breakfasts quit suddenly. Would you like to fill the position?”

The words stop Prompto in his tracks as he tries to process them. “I- you want me to… keep doing that?” He asks. No, that’s out of the question. If he stays around the royal family, they’d remember him for sure, then when he reveals himself as a prince of Niflheim, they’d suspect he was a spy, they’d break every treaty his father didn’t, it would be a nightmare-

“Of course the pay is increased, as well as accommodations. Two bedroom apartment, and almost thrice the amount of pay per hour than working in the dishroom.

...Fuck.

Prompto bites his lip. He’s… he’s not _spoiled_ , per se, but… but he’s used to lots of space and lots of money and free time. He got used to life on the streets, but now that he’s close enough to taste his old life, the lure is a siren’s song drawing him to the water to drown, and he has to obey.

“Sure,” he says before his brain realizes what he’s just agreed to.

 

* * *

 

The fifth time Prompto serves the king and prince, Noctis locks eyes with him. “What happened to Harley?”

“He quit, Highness.”

“Oh, so you’re the new server?”

“I am.”

The conversation ends there, with the prince nodding slowly before digging into his meal.

 

* * *

 

He forgets the question until later that night, when he hears a knock on the door of his new _two-bedroom apartment_. The sound sends the thrill of adrenaline through his spine that he still hasn’t been able to will away. 

Cautiously, he glances through the peephole and immediately falls over himself to open the door to the _prince of Lucis outside his apartment_.

“H-hello, Your Highness. H-how can I.. what… how can I help you?” he stutters.

Noctis looks at the ground for a second, then looks up. “I-I don’t really know how to… I don’t know how to word this well, Ignis is really the one who’s good at stuff like this, but, like… don’t take this a weird way, but… but if you’re… if you’re… into… guys, I guess… um… I- I’m trying to ask you out. If you’re into that. Because I think you’re really pretty.”

If Shiva herself had come down to Prompto and said that the prince of Lucis was going to ask him on a date, he would have laughed in her face (and likely been frozen solid immediately after for disrespecting her). But here he was, facing a blushing prince unwittingly asking the prince of an enemy nation on a _date_.

“I- I… Wow. Um, I- I appreciate…. Like, I just… not now. Um, no, but thanks.”

Noctis looks like a kicked chocobo, but nods. “Yeah, okay. No problem,” he says, though his posture screams ‘I hate my life right now’.

“Um, thanks, though. Good to know I’m pretty enough for a prince,” he says through the door he’s too awkward to close.

Noctis seems to take the hint and nods before turning away.

Prompto manages to suppress a scream as closes the door and lowers himself to the ground, pressing his back to the door on his way down. That…. That could not have happened. That had to be a dream. For a moment, he regrets that he said no so quickly, but then his rational brain kicks his horny brain out of the way. Serving the Lucian prince is one thing. It’s not a particularly public position, and servants are still fairly forgettable.

 _The boyfriend of the prince is not_. Forget the lying-about-who-he-is, the second his face is printed in the tabloids (he estimates approximately .2 seconds after they start their date), he’s a dead man.

With a centering breath, he sits back down on the couch, praying for his heartbeat to slow down, and trying to convince himself that everything will be okay. 

 

* * *

 

The next day, Noctis avoids his gaze, instead flicking the omelette around his place and replying to the King’s queries with one- to two-syllable responses. Finally, he gives up, and the meal resumes in silence save for the clinking of utensils on plates.

As Prompto clears away the plates, the king flashes him a warm smile. “Thank you very much, it was a wonderful meal, with less-than-wonderful interactions.” 

The prince, for his part, glances up. “Yeah, it was good. Thanks.”

With a low bow, Prompto accepts the gratitude and scurries off. The less time he can spend around the guy who’s paying too much attention to him, the better. Even still, he doesn’t think it’s doing much good. At this point, it’s almost guaranteed the prince would remember his face once he regains the throne.

To distract himself from his inevitable anxiety attack, he grabs his camera and wanders around the public garden, snapping pictures of the flora and fauna. Eventually, however, the lighting grows dim, and even with the money he’s now getting, he still hasn’t saved up enough for a camera with decent low-light settings, so he heads in for the night. 

He’s about to get ready to take the bus to get the photos developed when a knock at the door interrupts.

Cautiously, he peers through the peephole and his stomach sinks to his feet. The prince, _again_?

Prompto opens the door, bowing low to the royal. “Wh-what can I do for you, Highness?” He asks, then realizes all at once what is going to happen. He turned down the prince of Lucis. He wasn’t allowed to do that. The prince was coming to take him by force, no doubt-

“I wanted to apologize. For yesterday. I-I put you in a tough spot, cuz, like, I’m the prince, and I’m glad you were cool with saying no, but I shouldn’t have asked you like that so up front. So… sorry.”

The words root Prompto to the spot for a moment. He thought he was ready but…. It was weird. So wildly unexpected that he could only stare for a few moments before gathering his thoughts. “Uhhh… it’s okay. I just-”

The low murmur of a nearing crowd and the sound of tramping boots cut him off. The prince glances to the side and raises his eyebrows. “Hm, looks like the Kingsglaive are finally back.”

Prompto opens his mouth to continue, but the crowd passes by, lead by a man he recognizes terrifyingly well. Glauca, the man who trained him in combat, and his father’s best commander, at the head of the Kingsglaive, glancing over a clipboard and muttering to himself. 

His body moves without thinking. He grabs Noctis by the shoulder and hauls him inside, closing the door as quickly and quietly as he can, trying to stifle his rapid-fire heartbeat.

“What the hell?’ Noctis shrugs him off, stepping back to look him up and down. “You okay?”

Prompto meets the prince’s gaze. He _had_ to have seen Glauca with the rest of the Kingsglaive. Why was he not more concerned as well? “Did- that man in the front, with the purple armor. Who was he?”

Noctis furrows his brows. “That’s Drautos, captain of the Kingsglaive. Why?”

Ice seeps into Prompto’s veins as he realizes just how his father got wind of Lucis’ tactics. He had figured there was a spy in the Lucian ranks, but _Glauca_? That was almost too unbelievable to be true. “I…” he blinks. He has to think fast, Noctis still expects a response. “I thought.... He looked like… like my dad.”

The words Prompto dangled in front of the prince hang in the air for a few seconds as Noctis puts together the pieces. 

“Oh. Um, okay. No, it’s just Drautos. He and the Glaive got back from the skirmishes on the southwestern front. Apparently the Niffs are pulling back, which is weird. Maybe old Emperor Shitbag is finally dying.”

Prompto can’t hold back a snort. Even at Verstael’s angriest, the scientist rarely dared cross his father. “God, I hope so,” he says.

“Yeah, and his shitbag of a son went missing too. Hopefully he’s dead in a ditch somewhere so the Aldercapt line can finally go shit itself.”

In lieu of answering, Prompto purses his lips against the retort just begging to be snapped and nods. 

“Uh, anyway, I’ll… I’ll get out of you hair. Uh, apartment, I mean. See...you tomorrow?”

Prompto nods, and the prince leaves him. Alone. In the same building as Glauca.

He’s pretty sure that Glauca didn’t see him, but… but what if he did? This would not be a matter of sliding along under the radar. The commander is intimately familiar with him, with how he moves. There would be no hiding who he was around him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me: hmmm I wonder how I can add some suspense because Insomnia is so far from Niflheim but I should give his fears credence-
> 
> Drautos: _exists_
> 
> Me: oh shit yeah.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompto makes the decision to leave Insomnia, but some folks have other plans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is a story.... that I write....
> 
> it's been a hot minute, hasn't it? Good news, I'm settled in my job and after this weekend, I'll be done with con prep, so hopefully I'll be able to get back on the fanfic writing train....
> 
> ...let's see if I remember wher I wanted to take this shit.

Nightmares plague him until the early hours of the morning, when he gives up trying to sleep and instead puts on a cheesy movie to forget the looming threat of Glauca possibly knowing he’s still alive.

He would have thought the adrenaline from the constant anxiety would keep him alert, but during his shift, the king raises an eyebrow and comments, “Are you feeling alright, son?”

For a moment, Prompto figures the king is talking to his  _ actual _ son, then realizes, no, the king’s facing  _ him _ . He manages to stammer out, “O-oh, I’m fine. Just tired.” He turns to refill the prince’s juice and prays that’s the end of the conversation.

The king nods, then attempts to engage the prince in conversation. Despite his best efforts to stay asleep, Noctis responds in turn. 

The next day, he breaks a plate of finger sandwiches during the king’s lunch and narrowly dodges the king’s suffocating concern. The panic closes in around him even tighter now. The king  _ definitely _ knows his face, would easily recognize it in the future. Glauca is here, and Lucis is doomed, relying on a traitor to lead their armies.

He has to leave.

* * *

Though leaving his room is one of the last things he wants to do right now, he needs to get ready to get out. First things to go are the expensive gadgets he’s gotten himself - A dvd player/TV combo, his nice watch, some of his fancier camera lenses. He’s especially reluctant with the latter, but they fetch a pretty penny at the pawn shop. Between this money and the cash he’s bringing in from his job, he just needs to move to the outskirts of Insomnia, buy a cheap apartment, and wait for everything to blow over.

He finds himself lost in thought next to the dumbwaiter, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows at the guest wing beyond. 

“The eggs are getting cold,” a voice points out, and Prompto nearly drops the plate in surprise. He whirls away from the window he had been staring out of and meets the gaze of a handsome-looking Kingsglaive.

“O-oh, yeah, sorry.”

The other man winks then eases back into basic rest.

He feels the man’s eyes on him, paying too much attention to him, and it serves to set his nerves on edge. His hands shake, his knees feel weak, and if he breathes in the smell of food too deeply, he’s sure he’s going to barf.

His chest constricts against his lungs, and the walls loom tall around him like a cage, trapping him until Glauca can deliver the fatal blow. His heartbeat races in time with his thoughts. 

“And I was thinking that for the event next week-”

_ CRASH _

The sound of a dropped plate of eggs shatter the conversation around the table, and all eyes fall on Prompto. “I-I sorry. I’m sorry,” he stutters out, “I’ll get some more.”

“Pardon my saying so,” the king interrupts, “but you look positively dreadful. My son and I are more than capable of serving ourselves, you look like you need rest.”

He stands there for a minute, trying to decide which is worse: staying with the king and prince and run the risk of being remembered but be protected from Glauca, or keep to himself but risk being murdered in his sleep.

Decisions, decisions.

But the king motions with his head to the Kingsglaive at the far wall. “As long as you’re still being punished, Nyx, we might as well make you work. Why don’t you escort Prompto to his room?”

The kingsglaive, Nyx lets out a laugh. “Drautos told you already, did he?”

“Oh, nothing of the sort. I merely know  _ you _ .”

“Fair enough. Alright, blondie, let’s get you back.”

* * *

Thankfully, Nyx doesn’t talk much on their way back, or maybe the anxiety swirling through his head distracts him. But all he really knows is he’s living on borrowed time. He’ll work until the weekend, then when the prince and king go on their private trip to the Quay, he’ll run away again. By the time they notice he’s not showing up, it’ll be too late.

He swaddles himself in his blankets, wishing he at least kept the portable video game console to distract himself. Instead, he breathes as deeply as his lungs will allow him and counts backwards from one hundred, keeping pace with his breathing. 

A knock at the door interrupts his calming breathing, setting his heart into overdrive. He sits still for a long moment, trying to decide if it’s worth the risk. Silently, he slides off the bed and pads over to the door, holding his breath as he peers through the peephole.

It’s Nyx, carrying a canteen and looking lazily to the side.

Prompto blinks, wondering if this is some sort of trap. Could Glauca be waiting off to the side, ready to strike? It wasn’t unheard of for soldiers to be loyal to their commander. That being said, he  _ did _ have a prime opportunity to kill him a couple hours ago and didn’t, so maybe his paranoia can shut the fuck up.

Carefully, he swings the door open. “Can I help you?”

Nyx’s face breaks out in a smile. “Hey, glad this is your place. Say, Crowe gave me some of this tea a while back and I don’t really drink it, but she says it helps when you’re sick, so if you want some, I figured I might as well?”

Prompto furrows his brows. “Why?”

The Glaive shrugs. “Dunno, thought you might need it and like it. If not, it’s whatever.”

After a few moment’s thought, Prompto motions Nyx further into his apartment. “We can reheat it in the microwave if you need to.”

“Nah, it’s still warm. Hey, are you moving? Looks like you’ve pretty well packed up. Nice and clean.”

“Ah, yes. Pretty soon.”

“Cool,” Nyx replies. 

Prompto digs his water bottle from its spot in his backpack and offers it to the Glaive to fill up, which he gladly does.

The tea is a more lukewarm than the kind he’d be served back in Niflheim, but there’s a nice floral tint to it that he’s not used to. “It’s good,” he supplies.

Nyx lets out an easy smile, leaning against the countertop and raising the canteen in a toast. “For hearth and home. And health.”

“Yeah... “ Prompto murmurs, “for all of that.”

* * *

Friday comes with the numbing realization that he’s going to leave all this behind. He’s so used to the fairly easy work, the nice apartment, the touches of living back in Niflheim, that part of him wants to test out the limits of his luck and just stay here. 

But the more rational side has a much more appealing alternative: staying alive.

So as he buttons his shirt up with shaking fingers, he hypes himself up for the decision. To be fair, he still has to serve breakfast, but afterwards, he’s free. As long as he throws his phone away and removes any ties he had to Insomnia, he should be near impossible to track. 

At least, he wouldn’t have Terus breathing down his neck. If Glauca knew who he was, then he’d have no trouble tracking him down, but Prompto felt mostly safe with the notion that if Glauca knew who he was, then he’d probably be dead already.

He finds comfort in the familiarity of his morning commute. It’ll be a shame to leave it all behind, but then again, living through the weekend is pretty tempting too.

Nyx is back in the antechamber to the dining hall, and he gives Prompto a subtle wink.

Then, the easygoing smile vanishes without a trace, replaced by one of horror as he yells, “Wait!” 

Prompto stops short in confusion as something punches into his chest, knocking all the air from his lungs and sweeping him off his feet. He lands flat on his back, but something feels weird, wrong. He’s so confused, the ground is warm and wet beneath him, though his body is cold and numb. He can’t sit up. He sees Nyx’s face but it’s blurred, out of focus. Weird. He still has his contacts in. 

As he’s pondering this mystery, the numbness overtakes his vision, and he plummets into darkness.

* * *

Nyx glances to the side as the doors to the serving wing open, and Prompto steps out, looking slightly less wan that yesterday. The blond offers him a shaky smile, which Nyx returns with a wink before he sees something moving across Prompto’s chest. It takes him an agonizing second to realize what it is, and he barely has time to think before an ear-splitting gunshot rings out, and Prompto collapses to the ground.

He warps to the blond’s side in an instant, throwing up a shield just in time to catch another gunshot. He hopes Sonitus has the king and prince handled, because at this rate-

A third gunshot nearly cracks his shield, and he tears his concentration away from Prompto to maintain its strength. 

After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only fifteen seconds, Nyx turns his attention back towards Prompto. He’s running through his basic training when a squad of Crownsguard burst into the hallway and swarm around the area. 

Cor’s leading them, barking orders into an earpiece before turning his attention to Nyx and Prompto.

“Status report,” the immortal clips, as a pair of Crowsguard assure the prince’s safety, and the rest investigate the origin of the gunshot.

“Sniper, three shots. They aimed for the kid. It’s… it’s looking pretty bad.”

Cor looks pensive for a long moment. “Medics are on their way. A sniper rifle is a pretty bad sign. It’s a Niff tactic.”

Nyx nods in agreement. “So why would Niffs want to kill this kid so bad they’d infiltrate the Citadel, let alone Insomnia?”

“Hopefully,  _ he’ll _ be able to tell us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glad I didn't leave it at _that_ cliffhanger for four months?


End file.
